


Within You

by Fidix



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: 7000+ words worth of sex, M/M, Sex, so much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fidix/pseuds/Fidix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Most of his face is hidden by that damn mask - seriously, why is the beak so long, and who throws a masquerade dance when there are people this attractive - but Jack can see how pale his skin is, almost paler than his own, how golden his eyes are, how long his neck is. That shoulder to hip ratio should not be possible, yet somehow it is and he looks so damn good. </p>
<p>Jack licks his lips nervously, then does it again when the man’s eyes dart down to watch, a smirk spreading over his face. And fuck, that shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within You

**Author's Note:**

> Man, it has been so great seeing everyone's contributions to day one of blackice week 3.0. I hope that you enjoy mine as much as I have enjoyed everyone else's!
> 
> So, originally, this was supposed to be about 1000 words long. And then I got really into it and it became a 7000 word thing. Oops. I apologize for any errors in this, it's nearly midnight and I only just finished it now. Please feel free to leave any comments you have down below, or drop by my Tumblr, that-thingthatgoes-on.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also, yes, the title is a total innuendo because I am a shit and could not resist. It also ties in with The Labyrinth, and the David Bowie song Within You, which was part of that movie. They had a masquerade ball.

The music is a slow pound in Jack ears - it vibrates through his blood, a hypnotic thrum that is as just as intoxicating as the champagne served from the black circular trays the help are carrying around. He can barely see through his mask, but that doesn’t really matter. It’d defeat the purpose - this is a masquerade party, you aren’t supposed to be able to see. It’s a blind dance, a desperate play on blind love, if you ask the right person.

 

To Jack, it’s exactly that. But he’s here, all dressed up in his cream waistcoat and dark slacks, so what does it really matter what he thinks. He’s part of the crowd now.

 

He’s dancing with a lady clad in the most colourful dress he’s ever seen. It’s all feathers and sparkles in various shades of greens and blues and yellows. Her mask doubles as a headdress just as exotic as her gown, plumes of matching feathers give her the appearance of a bird. He can only see her graceful jaw and angular cheeks, the beautiful mocha of her skin. Her eyes are hidden away by the mask, but he has no doubt she is beautiful. Most of the people here are, upper class folks that make Jack question why exactly he’d here. He has money, sure, but not quite as much as these people. And despite the masks, he’s almost just as certain that he knows none of them.

 

She talks to him as they move across the dancefloor, her voice smooth tones despite the fact that she has to speak up to be heard through the crowd. She smiles at him, compliments him on his teeth, because that’s about the only thing she can see with his mask in the way, and he laughs good naturedly in turn. She’s nice, he thinks, but there’s not the film-worthy spark everyone expects to find tonight.

 

They change partners at the next song, just as they had at the last, and now he’s dancing with a tall, muscled man with a heavy Australian accent. The man’s voice is rough, and he’s not at all gentle, his hands firm and controlling where they rest on Jack, and it irritates him as much as it turns him on. He can see the hint of a tattoo peeking out of the man’s collar and he grins because oh, mommy and daddy were probably pissed about that.

 

But he’s not interested, so he turns away at the change of the song, letting someone grab him and sweep him into the next dance.

 

And oh, oh, this one is good. It’s a man again, and he’s at least a foot taller than Jack - he’s always had a size kink, in every meaning of the phrase. He towers over him gracefully, and Jack willingly takes his outstretched hand and lets the man pull him into whatever dance he sees fit. They spin gracefully, the hand that rests on Jack’s waist is like fire, and he can’t think anything other than the fact that he’s completely willingly to be burned if it meant the man wouldn’t let him go.

 

He doesn’t know why he’s acting like this; he wishes it would stop, he’s glad it hasn’t.

 

Most of his face is hidden by that damn mask - seriously, why is the beak so long, and who throws a masquerade dance when there are people this attractive - but Jack can see how pale his skin is, almost paler than his own, how golden his eyes are, how long his neck is. That shoulder to hip ratio should not be possible, yet somehow it is and he looks so damn good.

 

Jack licks his lips nervously, then does it again when the man’s eyes dart down to watch, a smirk spreading over his face. And fuck, that shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it is.

 

The man spins them towards the middle of the crowd, the place which gets the most attention, and Jack doesn’t even have the brain to protest because oh man, he can feel how good they look right now - his stark white hair and skin contrasting with the man’s dark suit and pitch hair, the way the man dances, fluent as if it’s a language rather than a movement.

 

He can also tell the song is close to ending, and he’s so ready to nope out of switching partners.

 

But even as the song does end, they keep on dancing, and Jack grins because he’s not letting go. The man keeps a firm grip on Jack, and smirks because Jack isn’t making to move away either.

 

They dance together with each passing song, gradually getting closer until finally their chests are pressed together and Jack’s arms have been slung around the person’s neck. It’s nowhere near propper, and he can feel the looks they’re receiving hot on his neck, but he doesn’t care because he hasn’t felt this good in a long time and the hell if he’s not going to make the most of it.

 

And then the man’s lips press against his ear and he has to keep from whimpering, because he wants to hear the voice that goes along with the body.

 

“Pitch.” It’s one word - a name, he thinks - but it’s enough. He’s never heard a voice so much like velvet, and he knows it’s cliche to think that, but it’s true.

 

Jack can’t keep his hands from reaching up to untie the strings that are keeping him from Pitch’s skin, from the rest of his sharp cheekbones and the rest of the pieces that go along with those golden orbs.

 

Pitch makes to protest, but Jack is fast and he’s got the strings untied and is holding the beaked mask in his hands like a prize. And then he grins, because oh dear god Pitch is beautiful, just as he’d thought. Pitch grins back, a delighted, deviant look glaring in his eyes, and he places his hands back on Jack, sweeping them again through the throng.

 

He’s older, maybe mid thirties to Jack’s barely twenties, but that’s never been a problem before - not to Jack. He’s never had much patience for people his age.

 

It’s at the end of the seventh song when PItch finally unties his own mask, a white and silver and blue and brown wooden weave that looks more like a circlet turned mask than anything else. When he’d had it made, he thought it had suited him - Pitch seems to think so too, if the gentle way he keeps a grasp on it was anything to go by.

 

And now they’re face to face, nothing to hide behind, and Jack’s never felt so seen in his entire life. Pitch’s eyes run over his face, a mixture of starving man and adoring lover, and Jack’s so confused and so lost in that gaze - they’ve only just met, only a one word exchange to go on, and Jack is already so wrapped up in him.

 

He feels one of the man’s long-fingered hands thread through his hair, the heel of his hand resting on Jack’s cheek bone, and he leans into the touch. They’re still dancing, somehow. Jack barely even registers it, his mind is on auto pilot.

 

It’s when Pitch’s hand trails through his hair, latches on to the strands at the nape of his neck and dips him back that he speaks again, right against Jack’s neck. “Your name?” It’s almost silent, a testimony meant only for him, and Jack has to focus to hear around the pounding in his ears and the feel of Pitch’s breath feathering over his neck.

 

“Jack,” he stutters out, and then Pitch his pulling them up again with the arm he has braced on Jack’s back.

 

He can feel the stares again, they’re like fire on his back, but he still can’t bring himself to care. If they don’t want to invite him to one of these sorees again, fine. He can’t imagine ever wanting to dance with anyone other than Pitch again anyway.

 

It’s at the end of the ninth song when Pitch finally kisses him -  it’s light, a gentle brush of dry lips, and Jack raises a brow when Pitch pulls away, because he knows he can do better than that.

 

And he does, it’s all lips and tongue and teeth, and Jack knows that this is so, so inappropriate, but who the fuck cares because Pitch is kissing him. When they pull away, they’re at the edge of the dance floor - Pitch must have danced them out of the crowd when Jack was too busy sucking on his tongue to notice.

 

He’s breathing hard, and so is Pitch, and they’re close enough that Jack can feel Pitch’s chest expand and contract against his. The hand that’s still in his hair releases, slides down his arm, grasps his hand. Each point of contact is a small point of fire, of warmth, and Jack’s never felt so cold in his life.

 

Jack thinks Pitch is going to kiss him again, it’s obvious he wants to - a thought that sends a thrill up Jack’s spine because oh god does he want Pitch to kiss him again - but he doesn’t, just grabs Jack other hand too and tugs, making it clear he wants him to follow.

 

And Jack does. He doesn’t care that this is a perfect stranger, that he knows nothing about Pitch but his first name - if that’s even his name. He just knows he wants to follow, that every fibre of his being is begging him to not. miss. this. chance.

 

His feet are moving, following Pitch into the shadows, and he’s never felt more his age than he does now, sneaking off into the dark like a teenager.

 

Pitch leads him up one of the many spiral staircases, completely confident in his movements as if this is his house. He’s so sure of where he’s going as he presses Jack’s hands into the small of his lower back and leads him down a long hallway. They take a left at the end, into another hall, and then Pitch is pulling out a key, unlocking the door, and he’s being pulled inside a room.

 

A room that smells just like Pitch, musky and intoxicating, and...oh. This is his house. Jack wants to laugh - he stops it just in time, aware that it’d be more hysterical than an actual laugh, because Pitch chose him, in a room full of nobles, of the richest and most beautiful people, Pitch chose him. No one chooses him, as a rule. He’s too “wild”, too “childish”. And what is it his fault if he prefers finger painting over politics? He wonders if Pitch knew more about him, would he make the same choice again - him over the rest.

 

He thinks not. The thought saddens him. He’s not like them - he’s not composed and able to sit still for hours at a time, playing croquet or attending fundraisers or hosting meetings. He prefers to be at his own home, in his loft big enough to suit his artistic needs. He doesn’t flaunt his money, doesn’t want to. He’s content to live his facade of a middle class life, and he wonders if Pitch would look down on him for that.

 

But then he can’t think anymore, the sound of the doors lock clicking into place making his mind blank once again.  

 

Pitch comes up behind him, places his hands on Jack’s shoulders, runs them down his arms. he buries his face in the space between Jack’s jaw and neck, inhaling. And that shouldn’t be such a turn on, really, because Pitch is basically smelling him, but Jack can’t help the way his head tilts back, allowing him better access as a small keen escapes his mouth. He can feel Pitch’s smirk against his neck, and that only makes him harder.

 

When Pitch licks a heated stripe from his collar to the space right behind his ear lobe he gasps, and then giggles because oh god, it feels so good, but it’s silly and cute and hot and arousing all at the same time. He’s overwhelmed, already so hard in his trousers, and Pitch has hardly done anything.

 

Pitch presses a chaste kiss to the tip of his ear, and then runs his hands down the slope of Jack’s back, circling him slowly, content to just look and touch as if he has all the time in the world - Jack thinks he probably does, money comes with power, and they could probably stay in this room for a week and everything would keep running merely because Pitch willed it to. The thought makes him shiver, being in this room for a week, just them, free to do nothing but touch and kiss and laugh and avoid everything and anything.

 

Pitch is in front of him now, running hands over his chest and stomach, tracing the planes of whatever muscles Jack possesses through the fit of his tail coat and button-up. It feels good, to be touched like this; it’s slow and makes him feel unexpectedly cherished, like Pitch wants him as much as Jack wants him.

 

And Jack wants to touch him too, wants to trace his body like Pitch is doing to him. He wants to discover what makes Pitch gasp, what makes him twitch and arch his back in pleasure. But he waits patiently, because people don’t touch him like this and he’s going to enjoy it while he can, because it’s going to end, it always ends, and he wants to memorise the way Pitch touches him so he can think back on it later, remember how good it felt.

 

Pitch walks him towards the lit fireplace, the only light source in the room, to the circle of wide, leather arm chairs that reside there. Pitch sits neatly down in one, and even sitting he’s still so tall. He tugs on Jack’s hand, and then Jack gets it, and he settles down onto Pitch’s lap carefully. The chair is wide enough for Jack to be able to brace his thighs on either side of Pitch’s comfortably, and so he relaxes into Pitch’s grip.

 

Pitch pulls Jack’s arms up to wrap around his neck, and then his hands are on Jack’s hips, and they’re kissing again. It’s slow, at first, just like the first time, a steady building heat that warms Jack’s everything. He moans when Pitch gently sucks his lower lip between his teeth, and then again when Pitch’s tongue slicks into his mouth, drags slowly over the roof of his mouth, runs over his teeth. There’s a burning pool of want in the base of Jack’s stomach, a tight cord that makes him feel on edge, makes him feel too big in his skin. He’s sensitive, every brush of Pitch’s tongue or hands makes him squirm.

 

His hands are braced on Pitch’s shoulders, steadying himself as he slowly rocks against Pitch, lusting after any friction he can find. It takes the edge of, sort of, but it’s nowhere near satisfying. He’s uncomfortably hard in his trousers, cock straining against the fabric obviously, and wishes Pitch would do something about it. But he’s completely content to press open mouth kisses to Jack’s neck and jaw as he holds his head back with the hand tangled in his hair. It’s good, so good, but it’s not enough.

 

He squirms again in Pitch lap, a “please,” escaping before he can register that he was going to say it, and he’s too far gone to even be embarrassed about how needy and breathless he sounds.

 

Pitch chuckles, the sound sending fire straight to Jack’s groin. “Please, what, Jack? What do you want?”

 

Jack makes a circular motion with his hips, grinding against Pitch, hoping that’s enough of an answer because he’s fairly certain he’s not going to be able to string a proper sentence together - he can feel his through his own trousers, and moans because not only is that simply delicious, but Pitch is big, beautifully proportioned in a way that makes Jack want him inside right now. After all, he’s always had that size kink.

 

It’s not, of course, enough. “What do you want, Jack?” Pitch purrs in his ear, making sure a gust of breath trickles in.

 

Jack can only manage a strangled “touch me,” but it doesn’t get him what he wants, because as he’s come to realise, Pitch is just as much of an asshole as he his gorgeous.

 

“Like this?” He can feel Pitch’s fingernails as they scrape down his torso, and it’s good, just as everything else is, but it’s still not enough.

 

Jack shivers, and then shakes his head. He just wants... “more.”

 

Pitch presses a quick kiss to his lips, which slowly degrades into something filthy, and then pulls away and looks at Jack approvingly.

 

“Up,” he says, gesturing for Jack to get off, and he momentarily panics because oh god, Pitch has finally come to his senses and Jack is not what he wants and Jack isn’t good enough and he can feel tears come to his eyes and he pushes away, but then Pitch catches his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, confused at Jack’s sudden rigidity, but he doesn’t ask. Jack’s glad - he doesn’t want to talk about his insecurities, not right now, and preferably not ever.

 

He looks down at Pitch, waits for the reason as to why he had to get up.

 

When Pitch speaks, his voice is filled with lust and desire, and it’s at least two octaves lower which just makes it that much sexier.  

 

“Strip.”

 

Oh god.

 

Jack’s reaching for his bow tie before he can give a second thought, eager to please. He wants to get them off as quickly as possible, they’re itchy and clingy and much more uncomfortable than he’d thought they were to begin with, but that’s probably just the anticipation. It ends up a show though, when he catches Pitch’s eye. He’s never been wanted so much as Pitch wants him now, and so he makes it slow, makes it worthwhile, tries to make it memorable as much as he can, because really what does he have to offer? A skinny body, barely out of adolescence, but Pitch seems to like what he sees and that’s all the inspiration he needs.  

 

He hooks his untied bow tie behind Pitch’s neck, pulling him forward so he can press his lips to Pitch’s. He pulls away sooner than he would like to, but he’s trying to tease because that’s hot right? Jack undoes each button one by one, slowly working towards the hem of his dress shirt. He doesn’t pull it off immediately, much as he wants to, but trails a hand up from his lower stomach, running it up over his chest, over one nipple. The moan he gives is only slightly exaggerated, but it’s worth it by the way a slowly, feral grin spreads over Pitch’s face.

Pitch reaches towards him, pulls his shirt and tailcoat from his shoulders, runs his hands over his bare arms, presses wet kisses to Jack stomach. Jack tangles fingers in Pitch’s black hair as he stands between Pitch’s knees, holding but not keeping him there. He gasps when Pitch runs his tongue over a nipple, and then presses kisses down his sternum, back arching in delight.

 

Eventually, he encourages Pitch to settle back, because he wants to do this, wants to see the lust in Pitch’s eyes just because Jack is undressing in front of him. It makes him feel wanted, Pitch makes him feel wanted, and that’s not something he’s willing to give up quite yet - he wants to see it in every way, shape and form for as long as possible.

 

He still has his shoes on, and he makes sure to give Pitch a good view of his clothed ass as he leans down to untie them. When they’re gone, along with the socks, and kicked off into a corner, he starts on his pants, making a show of popping the button and pulling down the fly, and then they’re at his ankles and he’s completely nude in front of Pitch, and he’s never felt so exposed in his life.

 

The lust in Pitch’s eyes as he gives him a lazy, appraising once-over makes him feel better about his skinny body, and nearly all self-doubt melts away as Pitch reaches for him again, coaxing him into his lap once again.

 

Jack reaches for his shirt before Pitch can make a move, starting on the buttons. There’s so many, and he’s tempted to just rip it, but he figures that rude and so he just keeps on going, deciding that every new inch of exposed skin is worth it.

 

They kiss once Pitch’s shirt is on the floor, along with his own bow tie and waistcoat. Jack has access to so much skin now, it gleams dully, reflecting the fire light, and he can’t keep himself from touching. It’s smooth under his fingertips, and warm, and if he presses his hand flat he can feel his heartbeat. It’s intimate, the steady thrum grounding him, lets him know that he’s wanted as the thrum speeds up when he moves his hands down Pitch’s stomach, tracing the muscles there.

 

There are scars, to Jack’s surprise, a long one that runs from one of Pitch’s collar bones down to a hip bone, and a few others that aren’t quite so prominent. He throws a questioning glance up at Pitch - what did he do to earn a scar like that?

 

Pitch responds with a short “military service,” and it’s clear that Jack shouldn’t ask more.

 

Instead, he presses his lips to it, starting at the place where it mars Pitch’s angular collar bones and dragging his tongue down as far as he can reach from his current spot on Pitch’s lap. He only gets to his sternum before he has to sit up again, unable to go any further, but the taste of Pitch’s skin lingers in his mouth and it doesn’t matter, because Pitch tastes just as good as he smells and he’s happy with the taste he got - there’s plenty more skin he can reach, and he has an idea.

 

Jack slides off Pitch’s lap easily, dragging his hands down Pitch’s torso then his thighs as he settles on his knees between Pitch’s legs. He reaches for Pitch’s belt, unbuckling the latch quickly. His hands are shaking - from nerves or anticipation or both, he too overwhelmed to make sense of any emotion.

 

When the belt is out of the way, he hooks his fingers into the waist of Pitch’s pants, looking up to catch his eye. Jack’s breath catches at the look Pitch is giving him, it’s intense, an unrelenting, silent praise that reminds Jack once again how wanted he is. It makes him feel like he’s doing the best thing in the world, like he’s right where he should be, and he can’t process how good that feels.

 

He goes back to Pitch’s pants, Pitch’s look even more of an incentive to keep going. He tugs, and Pitch lifts his hips obligingly, helping Jack pull them off . And then he can see all of Pitch, every inch of his creamy skin, and he can’t help but reach out and touch. His hands hook around Pitch’s ankles, traveling upwards slowly, over his muscular calves, scratching lightly at the sensitive skin behind his knees, and then come to a rest on the tops of Pitch’s thighs. He’s nervous, nervous of his skill in this area, of what Pitch will think. It send butterflies through his stomach, makes his chest tighten uncomfortably, but he moves again before he can talk himself out of it.

 

Pitch is hard and just as big as Jack had originally thought, and Jack knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to take all of him down, so he uses his hands too. He licks a hot stripe from the base of Pitch’s cock up to the tip, grins when Pitch gives a wet gasp, and takes the head of his cock in his mouth. There’s the taste again - something salty and bitter, and then something that is purely just Pitch, musky and spicy and intoxicating in the best way.

 

Pitch’s hands come up, tangling in his hair. It’s a firm grip, but it’s not controlling, and that pushes Jack closer the edge than he’d thought he could get from this. He takes him deeper, loosening his jaw and trying to be careful with his teeth, working around the immediate urge to gag from the restricted air flow. Pitch’s cock is a pleasant weight on his tongue as he bobs his head, using his hand to reach what his mouth can’t. He focuses on the fingers in his hair, the pressure they apply when they want him to linger on the downstroke, or suck harder near the head. He’s being controlled from the bottom, directed by little more than a touch. He’s surprised by how quickly he’s caught on to Pitch’s actions; each one means something different, and yet he understands most of them.

 

It’s good, he thinks, that they click so well. They’re two completely different people in the real world, probably, but here they understand each other, a language that belongs only to them. Jack wonders, briefly, if this will happen again, and then decides to stray away from that train of thought because the answer is probably no, and he doesn’t know if he can handle being rejected by Pitch after this.

 

And so he works on loosening his throat, breathing steadying breaths through his nose. He wants to take Pitch deeper, he wants more, and he’s not going to get it if he doesn’t control the damn gag reflex.

 

And then Pitch is pushing against the back of his throat, and that’s as much as Jack can do, because it hurts and it’s too much, and he’s never been so turned on in his life.

 

Pitch tugs on his hair, hard, and Jack pulls off, confused, sure he’s done something wrong.

 

But Pitch is grinning a dazed grin, and Jack relaxes once again.

 

“How are you even real.” Pitch’s voice cracks in two places, and much as he tries to hide it, and Jack grins back.

 

“Good?”

 

The kiss is answer enough.

 

“As appealing as coming down your throat is, I had something a little different in mind, if you’re interested.” Pitch pulls him forward, back into the chair, and he trails a hand down his stomach to grasp his cock, then trails lower, behind his balls to circle his entrance.

 

Jack can only come up with a short, “oh,” and then all thoughts shatter because Pitch’s hand is on him, and it’s hot, and Jack’s never been quite so stimulated.

 

“Is that what you want, Jack? Do you want me to fuck you?”

 

He moans, and then throws his head back because Pitch’s thumb is rubbing firm circles over the head of his cock, and he. can’t. think.

 

“What was that?”

 

And now he’s purring in his fucking ear. Fucking bastard.

 

It takes every ounce of his will, of whatever brain power he has left, to string the words, “fuck me,” together, and then he’s coming hard, his balls tightening in a mixture of pain and pleasure, and oh god he’s going to fucking cry this is too fucking much.

 

And then he’s being carried. He wraps his legs around Pitch’s waist, slings his arms around his shoulders, buries his face in the crook of his neck. Pitch is so warm, his footsteps are so soothing. And then he’s gone. Jack is placed on something big and soft, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s a bed because he’s so out of it.

 

He whimpers. He doesn’t know where Pitch is, it’s colder over her - there’s no fire, there’s no Pitch, and he’s probably going to wake up alone if he goes to sleep. He fights to keep his eyes open, stretches a hand out, groping blindly for Pitch.

 

He shouldn’t be this attached. It’s too bad that he is, because there’s no going back now.

 

Pitch returns a moment later, places his hand on Jack’s cheek, strokes a hand through his hair.

 

“A troubled one, aren’t you?”

 

Jack doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how.

 

Pitch crawls on the bed with him, drops lube and condoms beside the pillow Jack’s head is resting on, and oh stars, he doesn’t know if he can handle that. He’s already come once, and so hard he’d nearly blacked out. He feels boneless and tingly, and he’s doubtful about his skill in bed when he’s this exhausted.

 

But Pitch is a patient man, he thinks, because he’s not pulling the condom on or making to finger Jack. Instead, he rolls Jack onto his stomach and lays down beside him, chest against Jack’s bare side. His fingers card through Jack’s white hair, smoothing out the tangles, and then trace patterns on Jack’s shoulders and back. It’s sweet, Jack thinks, and unexpected. Pitch seems content to take his time, oblivious to his own need, acts like the gentle touches he’s giving Jack are more than enough to sate him.

 

Jack doesn’t know how much time passes, long enough for Pitch’s erection to have flagged, for the strokes that Pitch is giving him to be arousing. Pitch notices when Jack squirm, wanting something but still to boneless to really know what. He hears the cap of the lube pop, and he hooks a knee up to his chest so Pitch will have better access.

 

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get hard again - this is a lot, people don’t ever really want him more than once, so he doesn’t really know his limits.

 

The lube is cool where Pitch traces a stripe down his back, but it’s not uncomfortable.

 

And then a finger is prodding at his entrance, and the butterflies are back, and all Jack can think is yes.

 

It doesn’t hurt as much as he thinks it will. Pitch stops at the first knuckle, looks at Jack for permission to continue. It makes warmth swell in his chest, but Pitch cares, and he nods his head, trying to summon a smile. Even those small movements are strenuous, and he feels like he’s not doing enough, like he should be pleasuring Pitch too, because Pitch hasn’t even come yet.

 

Pitch is taking care of him. It shouldn’t be so foreign as it is.

Pitch pushes gently, the rest of his finger sliding in. He kisses Jack shoulder blades as he slides his finger in a rhythmic movement, twisting it inside of him. It’s good - Pitch is warm and he smells good and he’s so big, so tall, he practically envelopes Jack.

 

Jack moans brokenly when he adds a second finger, taking his time. He’s so patient, so willing to let Jack find his own limits. It makes Jack’s mind race - he’s never had a lover quite like PItch before.

 

His hands are so big, Jack thinks. Jack feels full with just two of his long fingers, three is going to be too much. He can’t fathom how he’s going to take his cock, but he moans anyway at the thought of it, how it’s going to burn in a way that’s right on the line between pain and pleasure, how full he’s going to be. Pitch is going to be inside of him. With other partners, that thought had always been thrilling, but not quite like it is now. He feels his cock twitch against the sheet and moans again, and then his eyes widen because he’s actually getting hard.

 

Pitch is careful with him, stretches him deliberately, aware that this is probably going to hurt if he takes it too fast. Jack’s vision goes cloudy when Pitch brushes over his prostate, and his back arches, hips slanting up; he wants more, whatever ‘more’ is. He’s really not sure at this point.

 

He hears Pitch chuckle approvingly against his shoulders, the vibrations of his laugh reverberating through him. It’s nice, he thinks, the way Pitch’s laugh sounds.

 

And then Pitch is pushing another finger in, and oh god was he right; Pitch’s fingers are long, so long, and reach places he could never get to with his own hand. With every steady thrust, Pitch rolls over his prostate, and Jack cries out almost every time, when he can manage to catch enough of a breath to make noise.

 

He bites into the pillow because otherwise he’s just going to keep moaning and he’s pretty sure that’s not attractive. He wants to be attractive for Pitch.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” it’s just a whisper, and Jack’s pretty sure he imagined it, but it makes tears spring to his eyes because it’s too much, and he’s in too deep, and he should not be this attached already, to a man he knows nothing about no less.

 

He doesn’t sob into the pillow, he doesn’t, but he bites his lips so hard he can taste blood. He can’t cry right now, lest he alert Pitch to how needy he really is.

 

“Fuck me.” It’s broken and barely more than a whisper, but it’s what he wants.

 

And then Pitch is pulling away, fingers slipping out of Jack. Jack whines but doesn’t move - he knows he won’t be empty of Pitch for long.

 

He turns his head so he can watch Pitch roll on the condom - seriously, why is everything the man does so arousing - and then reach for the lube. Jack is tired, so tired, but he wants to do something. He reaches for the lube, it’s closer to him anyway, so he doesn’t have to go far, and then looks up at Pitch from where he lays.

 

“Can I?”

 

Pitch looks surprised, and then he smiles, teeth gleaming in the reflection of the fire. He looks beautiful, Jack thinks. He’s so tall and slim and sculpted. How did he end up here, an ordinary person to the god that is PItch?

 

Jack pours some of the liquid into his hand, and then flips over onto his back so he can reach. In this position, limited movement is required to get to Pitch. He doesn’t think he could handle much else anyway.

 

Pitch is hard in his hand, having become aroused some time around when Jack did, probably. Jack remembers the pleasant weight of him on his tongue, and hopes maybe they can do that again one day. Maybe at another party they’ll meet again, a one night stand every time they run into each other, because Pitch will surely send him away once they’re done here.

 

When Pitch is slick enough in his grasp, he lets go, relaxing back onto the pillows. He’s unwilling to go back to laying on his stomach; he wants to see Pitch, wants to watch his face and the expressions he makes during sex, because those are almost as good as the sex itself, probably.

 

Pitch hooks one of Jack legs over his shoulder, strokes a firm line up Jack’s torso until he can cup his jaw, and then he’s kissing him. Jack knows it’s supposed to be distracting as well as reassuring, and so he gives into it, because as well-prepared as he is, Pitch is still the biggest person he’s ever been with.

 

Kissing Pitch is like losing yourself to a high, only half aware of the world around you, and the half you can see and feel and taste and touch is still somehow altered, not quite the same as it would be otherwise.  

 

For Jack, it’s just him and Pitch right now. There’s no music rattling the walls, no fire roaring in the hearth, nothing but the sounds that they make and the way Pitch tastes on his lips. And then, finally, the way Pitch’s cock feels sliding into him. He gasps because even just the tip is a stretch, but it’s so good, so good. And little by little, Pitch sinks into him. Jack can feel Pitch’s eyes on him, watching him for signs of absolute discomfort, but Jack is too lost in sensation to comprehend whatever Pitch is asking him.

 

He taps Pitch chest twice, and Pitch goes absolutely still over him, barely even breathing. Jack loves that he just gets it, that he just understands that Jack needs a minute, that he’s burning up and losing all sense of self and thought and the world around him. Not that he’s had much sense of any of those things for a while now, pretty much ever since they’d first danced together all those songs ago.

 

When Jack can breath again, kind of, he taps Pitch once more. The next inch is positively delightful, finally passing the point where his fingers couldn’t reach and discovering depths of himself that he hadn’t known existed. It still hurt, but it wasn’t something he couldn’t find pleasure in too, more like a residual ache than any actual discomfort.

 

Jack doesn’t want him to stop again, doesn’t want to ask, and so he bites Pitch’s lip and whines, and then gasps because he’s so full and it’s so much and he’s never wanted anything more than he wants Pitch now.

 

And then Pitch’s hips settle heavily against his own, and he can’t help but rake his blunt nails down Pitch’s muscular back. Pitch hisses against him, flexes at the sensation, and Jack can feel each one of Pitch’s muscles move beneath his pale skin. It’s fascinating, gives him something to focus on other than how overwhelmed he is.

 

He can feel Pitch’s lips on his collar bones, the way his shoulder blades shift with every move he makes, and Jack just wants him to…  “move.”

 

Pitch does, some of the rigidity flowing out of him now that he’s not restraining himself as much. His thrust are shallow, he’s barely moving. Still so patient, even now, giving Jack as much time as he needs to adjust to Pitch’s size.

 

Jack brings his other leg up, hooking it over Pitch’s hip, moans because that’s an entirely new angle and so good, so heady and so much. He presses the heel of his ankle into a globe of Pitch’s firm ass, encouraging him to get on with it.

 

Jack grins as the air is forced out of him with each thrust - they aren’t that much harder, but they’re intense, each one calculated and firm; they fill him up so perfectly.

 

“Come on, come on.” Jack doesn’t even realise he’s speaking until Pitch slams into him, makes him realise he said that out loud, and Jack wants to let out a string of curses because it feels. so. good.

 

Pitch takes the lead from there, Jack obviously having adjusted, and his pace is fast and relentless, barely gives Jack time to breath. He’s okay with that, with the blankness that washes over him, because he’s finally getting what he wanted, doesn’t have to scramble after coherent thought anymore.

 

Jack hooks his arms around Pitch’s neck, buries his hands in his hair, and lets himself get lost in Pitch.

 

He’s not going to hold out long, he’s so close already. Heat pools in the base of his stomach, his breaths are ragged and broken and he’s moaning with every other thrust.

 

He rocks his hips back into Pitch’s, meeting each of his thrusts. He hopes Pitch is close too, because he’s not going to hold out much longer; he’s shaking, a sure sign that he’s about to fall apart. Jack bites down hard into Pitch’s shoulder to muffle the yell he’s about to let out, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until he tastes something metallic in his mouth. He’s horrified until he hears the appraising grunt, and then a hard thrust that rocks right against his prostate and sends him over the edge. He comes with a shout as Pitch jerks him off, evidence of Jack’s release painting his hand with stripes.

 

Pitch comes soon after, Jack’s release triggering his own orgasm, and he gives a low grunt as he grabs onto the headboard, hips shuttering to a stop as he buries himself deep within Jack and comes.

 

Pitch is just as gorgeous now as he is composed and regal - his face is open, so many emotions playing the surface, and Jack watches his face contort in pleasure with whatever parts of his brain are still functioning.  

 

Pitch collapses on top of him, body going slack with exhaustion, and Jack just wraps his arms around him and lets him rest; it’s nice, having Pitch so heavily on top of him. It’s warm and comforting and Jack doesn’t ever want to move, wants Pitch to stay inside and on top and no where else.

 

Eventually though, Pitch does pull away, pull out, and Jack grimaces; it’s uncomfortable, to feel so empty after being so full. He’s not sure he likes being a singular person quite so much at the moment.

 

He tosses the condom in a nearby waste basket, then disappears off the bed and into another room.

 

Well, I guess that’s it then, Jack thinks. They’ve fucked, done what they’d come up here for. He should probably start trying to find some of his clothes before Pitch kicks him out.

 

He’s about to slide off the bed when Pitch comes back, damp cloth in hand.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Pitch asks, velvet voice breaking the silence.

 

“Most people don’t exactly ask me to stick around, so I don’t expect it. I can go.”

 

“Stay.”

 

He stays.

 

~~~

 

Later, after Pitch had cleaned him up - a sweet notion, one that he’d not expected, but Pitch was just full of surprises, wasn’t he - they lay together tucked under the sheets. Jack rested his head against Pitch’s chest, shivering on every upstroke of Pitch’s hand against his spine. It was nice to just be held, to have no true end goal, no purposeful actions towards arousing him. The party roars on downstairs. Somewhere, politicians are arguing. Somewhere else, a couple is getting married. But here, in this room, are Jack and Pitch. No distractions, nothing to penetrate their exclusive bubble of two, at least while it lasts.

 

Jack hopes it lasts a long time.

  
  


 

  
  



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